


And Here My Troubles Begin

by Kholran



Series: Under Your Skin [3]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Magical Tattoos, Sexual Content, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Well that escalated quickly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-13
Updated: 2015-03-13
Packaged: 2018-03-17 15:44:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3535004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kholran/pseuds/Kholran
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bard has a vivid imagination but it can't compare to the real thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Here My Troubles Begin

**Author's Note:**

> I am so sorry this took so long! I hope the next update will happen more quickly.

Bard closes the door behind him, and the soft click of the latch seems deafening in the silence. He leans back against the smooth wood for a moment, holding his breath and listening. There’s nothing on the other side, and he lets out a sigh of relief. His wanderings seem to have gone mercifully unnoticed by the guards. Getting past them twice had been no easy task.

He stays where he is for a moment longer, until he’s sure, and then levers himself upright again, kicking his boots off towards the far wall. They land on the polished stone floor with a dull thud. His fingers release the strip of leather holding his hair back and then work their way through the wet tangle of black waves in a vain attempt to make sense of them. He gets the worst of the knots out before he gives up. 

His reflection peers out at him from a small square of glass on the wall. Like it’s judging him. His hosts would probably be appalled by his lack of interest in hair care. He bites back a smirk at the thought and turns away to drag his shirt over his head. That just makes his hair situation worse. He shrugs it off and tosses the garment in the direction of his travel pack.

Since he’s not sharing the room (and thank the gods for that) he doesn’t bother finding another. Leaving the dragon exposed doesn’t bother him as much as it used to. At least, not while he’s alone. It still bothers other people a lot, and he doesn’t need to bring that kind of trouble upon himself and his family. He’s got enough as it is.

Which, in retrospect, makes what he’d done all the more foolish. He tries not to think about what the consequences might have been if he’d been caught sneaking around so late at night and without permission. What if he’d strayed into some kind of “forbidden” this or “sacred” that? The elves here aren’t known for being very forgiving of trespassers, and their king has something of a reputation for being cold and heartless.

Having seen the way he’d refused to bend to any of the Master’s demands, Bard believes it.

But it doesn’t make him any less beautiful.

Unbidden, Thranduil’s face flashes through his mind. The way his pale blue eyes seemed to see straight through Bard sends a shiver down his spine, and he wonders if Thranduil’s hair is really as silky as it looks and how it might feel clutched in his fingers while they—

He groans inwardly and collapses face-first onto the bed.

When that renders breathing too difficult, he rolls onto his back. The silence that was welcome a few minutes ago seems almost oppressive now, and tries to distract himself by studying the arches above. The amber-coloured lamps throw the sinuous lines into sharp relief. They’re carved to look like tree roots, he notices, and they do. A faint glittering gives them away as stone and not real wood, but otherwise the effect is very convincing.

Bard sighs again.

This sudden obsession is a problem.

Not the one with the architecture, the one with King Thranduil. It had been a constant battle all day not to stare. One he’s pretty sure he lost over dinner. He’d hoped taking a walk might clear his head. So much for that idea.

It doesn’t make any sense. He’s not the type to fall for someone he just met. In fact, he can count the number of times he’s been attracted to anyone, ever, on one hand, and it’s never been like this. Never so sudden and unexpected. Never quite so strong.

He loves- loved- Liesel, deeply, but what they’d had was different. Falling for her had been a gradual process, and while their marriage had produced three children, for Bard, it had never been about physical intimacy. It had been a love based in friendship and mutual respect, carefully cultivated and slow to blossom.

But this. This is desire, plain and simple.

And he doesn’t know what to do with it. Why now? Why an elf? _Why the fucking king of the elves_?

He presses the heels of his palms into his eyes until he sees stars.

He’d had a feeling this trip was going to be a nightmare. He’d just expected the cause to be the Master and his lot, and their barely concealed disdain for him. He’s used to that, and knows how to handle it. He ignores them, they ignore him, and with a bit of luck, he gets to go home to his children sooner rather than later.

Maybe that’s the best solution for this too. Ignore it, go home, and hope the Master never demands his service again when traveling to the Woodland Realm. He can just pretend he never laid eyes on the Elvenking.

Problem solved.

~*~

Except it wasn’t. _Of course_ it wasn’t.

It’s been three days and neither side has budged in their demands.

Bard feels like he’s slowly being driven mad.

Every day, he stands flanking the Master, tuning his voice out as he argues the same points over and over, and stares down the table at Thranduil and the elven delegation. Every evening, he takes his meals alone and steals glances at the king from across the dining hall. Every night, he slips past the guards and makes his way to the hidden pool where he tries to burn off his pent-up frustrations.

And every night, he fails and returns to his room feeling more and more trapped.

What’s worse is that there’s absolutely nothing he can do about it. He can’t just leave. He can’t hide away in his room and refuse to come out. He certainly can’t act on his desires. Not outside of his imagination, anyway, and _since when has it been that vivid_?

Bard blinks in surprise.

It’s not his imagination. There, sitting casually on his bed and awaiting his return is the king himself. There’s an air of amusement on his face, but it’s the dangerous kind. The kind worn by an executioner who likes his job too much.

Certain he’s about to find himself in a world of trouble, Bard drops instinctively to one knee in proper homage. “My lord Thranduil,” he forces out around his suddenly parched throat.  His gaze fixes firmly to the floor and he dares not raise it, even when the rustle of fabric and the creak of the bed tells him the king has risen to his feet. He’s also acutely aware that he’s dripping water all over the floor.

“Tell me,” Thranduil says, and by the gods if that voice doesn’t send a shiver down Bard’s spine even in his current predicament. “What cause do you have to roam my halls at this hour?”

Bard’s mind races, fumbling and grasping for any excuse besides the truth, because he’s really not sure ‘I couldn’t stop fantasizing about you so I went for a swim’ is the right answer to the question.

Silence, apparently, isn’t the right one either.

“Why do you not answer me?” Thranduil sounds as though he’s losing his patience, and Bard cringes.  “Have you something to hide?”

Yes. Yes he does. “No, my lord.” His heart feels like it’s going to pound out of his chest, and in the absolute silence of the chamber, he’s certain the elf can hear it. The rapid cadence isn’t doing anything to help his professed innocence.

“Trespassing is a serious offense. Lying to a king is a greater one.” Thranduil’s footsteps barely make a sound as he approaches. “What are you really? A thief? A spy? An assassin?” Each accusation brings the king a step closer, until he’s towering over Bard. It’s meant to intimidate him, and it works.

“I am none of those things,” he tries to say. It comes out as more of a croak, and he swallows dryly around the desert that’s now in his mouth. “I’m just a guard. Nothing more.”

“And yet instead of doing your duty, and guarding, you saw fit to slip past mine and wander my kingdom uninvited. I ask you again. Why?” That single word is sharp enough to cut straight through him, and Bard knows in that instant that his fate, maybe even his life, rests on his answer.

“I couldn’t sleep.” It sounds inadequate. It is inadequate. He risks a glance upwards and finds Thranduil looking at him expectantly, one dark brow arched as if to say ‘And?’. Bard closes his eyes against the inevitable truth and takes a deep breath. “My thoughts were too loud, and the room too silent to drown them out.”

For a few long moments, that silence reigns and everything seems to stop. Even Thranduil has gone completely still, and then finally, he speaks again. “You do realize that is a figure of speech, do you not?” The amusement is back, but this time, that’s all it is, and it catches Bard by surprise.

“I…what?” His forehead creases in confusion. A moment ago, it seemed like he was about to be thrown in the dungeons, or worse, and now…well, now he’s not exactly sure what this is.

The king fixes a pointed glance on the puddle under Bard’s knee, and there’s almost a smile ghosting over his lips. “By the state of your clothing, it seems you might have attempted to drown them in a more literal sense.” Thranduil turns away, gesturing at him to stand, and he does.

All at once, the tension seems to dissipate, but that presents a new problem. Now that he’s not preoccupied with fearing for his life, he’s nearly overwhelmed by the elf king’s presence. Thranduil is even more beautiful up close. The golden glow of the lamps casts a sort of halo around the crest of his head, and Bard has to fight the sudden urge to reach his hand out and touch. They’re no longer separated by the span of a table or an expansive room. Now the king is only an arm’s length away.

As if reading his thoughts, Thranduil pivots to face him again, and his eyes sweep from Bard’s feet to the top of his head, assessing. “What, I wonder, could be the cause of such tempestuous thoughts?” He poses the question as if he already knows the answer. Or maybe as if he hopes he does.

It dawns on Bard that this was never an interrogation. The king wouldn’t have been waiting so casually, alone, for a suspected criminal. This is a game. This is…flirting? Bard flushes, then silently curses his traitorous reaction. It speaks for him, and judging by the smirk that crosses the king’s face, it’s response enough.

“Perhaps it isn’t a ‘what’ at all, but a ‘who’?” Thranduil’s head tilts slightly to one side, the way a cat’s might when it has a mouse cornered.

That’s how he feels. He’s the prey, and there’s no chance of escape. There hasn’t been since the moment he set foot in the Elvenking’s halls. And he doesn’t want to. His heart starts to pound again, only this time it’s not out of fear.

“What would give you that impression?” he asks, feigning innocence. He can play this game too. Even if he’s a little rusty at it.

Approval flickers across Thranduil’s face, acknowledgment of Bard’s participation. “Do you think I have not noticed the way your eyes linger? For days, I have felt you watching me.” He steps closer, and Bard draws a sharp breath, one that smells of forest and earth and all things that grow.

Their eyes meet and hold and Bard loses himself in the depths hidden beneath the ice until his gaze darts instead to the king’s lips, still curved upward.

“It is your need that keeps you awake.”

That voice, deceptively deep for such a fair man, coils around his chest and sends another shudder through him. Bard’s tongue darts out to wet his own lips, and it’s followed by a single, barely-audible “Yes.”.

“Then that is something we share,” Thranduil murmurs, and closes the distance between them.

The mouth that covers Bard’s tastes faintly of wine and leaves him feeling just as intoxicated. Long fingers come up to frame his face, pulling him in and coaxing a response out of him.

Bard gladly obliges, never once asking himself why.

There’s nothing chaste or hesitant about the kiss. They meet in a clash of lips and teeth and tongues, and it’s heat, and it’s hunger. Thranduil presses him back against the wall, ignoring the fact that Bard is still dripping water and dampening the front of his robes. Bard’s hands grip the elf’s hips, greedily forcing their bodies together and ignoring the fact that Thranduil is royalty. And the fact that he should find this wrong for so many reasons.

But he doesn’t.

Not when the king trails open-mouthed kisses across his jaw and down his neck. Thranduil’s tongue finds a spot just behind Bard’s ear that draws a moan from his lips. His head thumps back against the wall to give the elf better access and his fingers twist into Thranduil’s pale hair. It’s just as soft as he imagined.

Not when he works his leg between Thranduil’s and feels the elf’s desire hard against his thigh. When Bard moves, slow and teasing, he’s rewarded with a mewling sound that’s most un-kingly.  He kisses Thranduil again and swallows the next one.

Not when Thranduil’s hands deftly free him from the confines of his trousers. It’s a challenge because the fabric is still waterlogged and clings to his skin. Bard pays no attention to where they land when he finally kicks them free. He’s too focused on the fingers that curl around him.

Not when Bard nods his consent and the elf eases into him, filling him in a way he’d never thought possible. Thranduil is still mostly dressed and the silk of his robes slides against Bard’s inner thighs when he wraps them around the king’s waist. Somehow, it’s even more erotic than if he’d been wearing nothing at all.

Not when their movement becomes frenzied and desperate, their kisses sloppy, and their breathing erratic. Bard grips Thranduil’s shoulders hard enough to bruise even through the fabric, and he has scrapes on his back from the stone wall. It isn’t as smooth as it looks.

And not when the king moans his release against Bard’s shoulder, triggering his own. They stay there, breathless and trembling and clinging to each other for long minutes, until Bard finally huffs a laugh. “Is that the standard punishment for trespassing?” he asks.

It isn’t until later, much later, after Thranduil has put himself back together and slipped silently out of the room, that Bard lays awake on his bed wondering just what the king sees in him and what he’s gotten himself into.


End file.
